The Flying Graysons
When you’re a child,
and have never suffered loss.
You only see the bar swinging in space,
feel the familiar rhythm
of catch and release.
You are a spinning coin tossed
in the air, caught
forever in the uncertainty
between life and death.
There is no net, no illusion of safety.
Life is motion, always motion
even when you fall—
especially when you fall.
Your parents understood.
You will no longer see the crowd,
but they will see you:
like a photograph,
a boy knelt down
tracing the bloody smiles
of his parents.
They will remember you,
like they remember me.
When you’re a child,
and have never suffered loss.
You only see the bar swinging in space,
feel the familiar rhythm
of catch and release.
You are a spinning coin tossed
in the air, caught
forever in the uncertainty
between life and death.
There is no net, no illusion of safety.
Life is motion, always motion
even when you fall—
especially when you fall.
Your parents understood.
You will no longer see the crowd,
but they will see you:
like a photograph,
a boy knelt down
tracing the bloody smiles
of his parents.
They will remember you,
like they remember me.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson